


the weight of one man's grief

by Atlanta_Black



Series: Merlin One-shots [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Gen, Heavy Angst, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), The Darkest Hour, lancelot is trying his best okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28687581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: He arrives too late to stop Arthur from doing what he’s always said he was willing to do, but arrives just in time to catch the last glimpse of golden hair disappearing into the veil and it feels for a moment as if the world has stopped existing. The entirety of his existence narrowed down to nothing but the veil slowly slipping closed and the after image of sunlight licking at golden hair.Feels as if there is nothing but his own thundering pulse and the earth beneath his feet screaming, screaming,screaming. Or perhaps that is his own voice being torn from his throat, the sound of his own magic ripping through the trees, racing toward the veil that is nearly closed.They would not take him. They would not.They do.
Relationships: Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin One-shots [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875181
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	the weight of one man's grief

_Stood on the cliffside_

_Screaming, "Give me a reason"_

_Your faithless love's the only hoax_

_I believe in_

_Don't want no other shade of blue_

_But you_

_No other sadness in the world would do_

_hoax_ | Taylor Swift 

  


☀︎

  
Merlin’s only a few seconds too late. Only a few seconds. Gwen had made a joke that had fallen flat, her worry far too obvious to allow any humor to take purchase in her words, and he had stopped for just a second to smile gratefully at her. To smile at his first friend in Camelot. Had spared only a few seconds to thank the goddess that she’d seen fit to give him such a wonderful, lovely friend.

It was only a few seconds and now he’s too late. _(He’s always just a few seconds too late. Always reaching out to grasp those he holds dearest and missing them by the barest amount.)_

He arrives too late to stop Arthur from doing what he’s always said he was willing to do, but arrives just in time to catch the last glimpse of golden hair disappearing into the veil and it feels for a moment as if the world has stopped existing. The entirety of his existence narrowed down to nothing but the veil slowly slipping closed and the after image of sunlight licking at golden hair. 

Feels as if there is nothing but his own thundering pulse and the earth beneath his feet screaming, screaming, _screaming_. Or perhaps that is his own voice being torn from his throat, the sound of his own magic ripping through the trees, racing toward the veil that is nearly closed. _They would not take him. They would not._

They do. 

The veil slips closed and his vision goes white. He knows nothing else for a long while. Knows of nothing else but the sound of his own voice being ripped from his body and spread across the bleeding ground. 

The veil slips closed. 

It is the beginning of the end.  


☀︎

  
He was going to be too late. Lancelot knows this, knows that it had taken him too long to get away from the others. _Knows_ that there is no way for him to make it to the veil before either Arthur or Merlin sacrifice themselves.

He knows this, and still, the scream of anguish that cuts through the night leaves his skin crawling. Leaves dread prickling down his spine. 

He runs faster, nearly dropping his sword in his haste to reach the clearing. 

In the back of his mind, the part of him that he likes to ignore, he had _known_ that if Arthur died Merlin would handle it badly. He had known this, knows this, and he doesn’t like to admit that he fears the idea of Merlin lost to grief but—

But it would be foolish to ignore what he knows of his friend and he knows that Merlin holds more power in his pinky that he will ever hold in the whole of his own body. Any other day, any other death, and Lancelot would worry about nothing except the ever growing mental turmoil weighing on his friend. 

Any other day. Any other death. 

But this death, this loss… He worries it will carve its way into the land itself, the wound put there by Merlin in his grief. 

He runs faster, paying no attention to the branches catching on his cloak. Rips it from his neck and lets it fall to the ground. His knighthood will do none of them a bit of good if there is nothing left to protect. 

He reaches the clearing right as Merlin lets out another scream and this time he’s close enough to feel the magic echo through the land. To feel the ground beneath his feet shudder and creak with the weight of one man’s grief. 

No, the intent on Merlin’s face as he stalks toward the veil is terrifying, a dark mask of rage that is mimicked by the rapidly darkening sky. There is nothing of the Merlin he knows left in the expression. Nothing but a cold, burning mask of fury. 

_Please forgive me_ , he prays, sending the plea of to whoever may hear. Arthur perhaps, wherever he now is. _Please forgive me_ , he thinks at Merlin, _but I can’t let you do this._ He doesn’t know what happens if you tear the stone archway that had held the veil to pieces. 

Even worse, he doesn’t know if Merlin has the power to re-open the veil through nothing but sheer force of will alone. Regardless, he can’t allow Merlin to do either of these things. 

He races forward, heart growing heavier with every step he takes. Merlin never turns around, doesn’t seem to realize that Lancelot is racing up behind him at all. As if his trust in Lancelot is so implicit that it doesn’t occur even to his magic that Lancelot could be a threat. The thought leaves guilt curling around his throat but he soldiers on. Arthur would not want Merlin to destroy Camelot just to bring him back. He knows this, and he knows Merlin knows this, even if he is currently lost to his grief. 

The sword slips straight through the thin jacket that Merlin always wears. Through the jacket and through the soft flesh underneath, piercing directly through his heart, and for one awful moment, it’s as if the sword in his chest is not there at all. Merlin takes another step forward, and then another, not even noticing the sword sticking through his chest. 

_For one fearful moment, the wind whipping angrily around him, the ground beneath his feet bleeding out its rage, he wonders if Merlin can be killed at all._

Merlin stumbles. 

Stumbles and trips, hand rising to his chest, the wind abruptly dying down. With one hand pressed to his bloody chest, he turns wide, betrayed eyes on Lancelot. 

“Lance,” he breaths, a world of betrayal hidden in the sound. He casts another look behind him, hand half rising from his chest as if even now, he wants to reach for the veil and tear it apart. 

“I’m sorry,” he says evenly, meeting Merlin’s eyes and holding onto his conviction that this was the _only_ choice. “I’m so sorry, but Arthur wouldn’t have wanted you to do that and I had no other way to stop you.” 

There’s a glimmer of recognition in Merlin’s eyes at the statement, right before he slumps to the ground, eyes slipping closed, hand dropping uselessly to the ground. Lancelot doesn’t let is grip on his sword loosen until the ground has stopped shaking. An occurrence which takes far longer than he feels it should have. 

He stabs his sword into the ground, sinks to his knees, buries his face in his hands, and allows the tragedy of what’s occurred here wash over him. Merlin was not his first friend, and was by far not his last, but he was the one that had put his faith in Lancelot when it felt as if everything in his life was going wrong. He was Lancelot’s _friend._

Merlin was his friend, and now he’s dead. Killed at Lancelot’s hand. 

If Arthur is the hero, and Merlin the grieving storm, then what does that make Lancelot in this story? What does that make him? _What does that—_  


☀︎

  
_He had walked through the veil, this he knows. Had walked into the arms of death to save his people and the first thing he is aware of hearing is, “You should not have walked through that veil young king.”_

 _“What?” He mutters, rubbing his eyes, trying to make the white in his vision fade, before realizing that the white is everywhere, all around him, boxing him in with it’s brightness._

_“You were not meant to die in that manner,” comes the voice again and Arthur blinks, spins around to see nothing but more endless white. Reaches for his sword and finds only air._

_“Your sacrifice did not buy your people the safety you desired.”_

_“I died,” he hisses, searching the air for any movement at all, and grasping uselessly at the thin white tunic he’s in. “I died, and so you have to take the doracha back!”_

_“It is not the doracha that will destroy your kingdom young king.”_

_“What—“ he starts, stumbles back when the the air in front of him ripples, twists, tears its way open until he can see the blue sky and the green grass and the stone arches he had walked through._

_Until he can see a storm and Merlin, eyes burning gold and screaming so loudly it leaves him fallen to his knees, hand helplessly outstretched. Leaves betrayal coursing through his veins, the gold of Merlin’s eyes seeming to burn through him and leave him hollowed out._

_And then Lancelot stabs a sword through his best friends heart and Arthur—_

_Arthur doesn’t know who to blame. Doesn’t know what to do._  


☀︎

  
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Gwaine’s yell breaks through the clearing, a clap of avenging thunder. Lancelot doesn’t move, too weary to lift his head from his hands. Can’t stop the looping thought, _what does that make me?_

He doesn’t realize the other knights have arrived as well until he hears Gwaine yell, the sound so weak in comparison to the heart wrenching cries that had left Merlin’s mouth. Doesn’t realize they’ve arrived until Gwaine yells and Leon’s voice yells back, followed swiftly by a gasp so quiet, so utterly gut wrenching, that he finds himself raising his head, and locking eyes with Guinevere’s. 

“What did you do?” She whispers, echoing Gwaine’s yells, the question twice as damning coming from her mouth. 

He doesn’t know if he means to answer, doesn’t know what he could have said in response. Hasn’t considered all the repercussions of what he’s done, he only knew, could feel in his bones, that he could _not_ allow Merlin to break that stone. Could _not_ allow Merlin to re-open that veil. Not for Arthur, not for any man no matter how beloved he may be. 

He opens his mouth, perhaps to say nothing, perhaps to offer up a lie, despite how false it will lay on his tongue. But before he can get anything at all out, a raindrop lands on his upturned face and a chill races down his spine as the earth answers, a deep rumbling growing steadily beneath his knees. 

His head snaps back to Merlin’s body, right as the sky re-opens, the clouds racing together into a frothing, raging mess of pain. Merlin’s eyes snap open, blue and bright as the sky. 

Merlin’s eyes snap opens and the knights fall silent, Guinevere stumbling back a step. 

The ground creaks and Merlin stares at Lancelot, the never-ending sky in his eyes, and he wants to laugh. Wants to laugh and laugh until his heart gives up from the force of his grief, his relief, that same question, repeating on a loop. 

If Arthur is the hero _(dead and gone and irrelevant except for all the ways in which he is not)_ , and Merlin the unbeatable, raging storm _(one word away from wiping this city from the map)_ , then what does that make Lancelot? What does that make him in this story? 

The shaking grows, building and building as the rain beats down upon them, and still, all Merlin does is stare. 

“Maybe you’re right,” Merlin says eventually, voice somehow carrying even through the storm. He sits up, pressing a hand to the tear in his shirt, to the smooth unblemished skin wearing nothing but the rainwater answering Merlin’s call. “Maybe Arthur wouldn’t have wanted me to try and bring him back—,” and there’s a deceptively calm tone to his voice that sets Lancelot’s teeth on edge, leaves the fine hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “—but when I have _ever_ listened to what Arthur wants me to do,” he near snarls, baring his teeth in a mimicry of a smile. 

And for the first time, rain on his eyelashes, the ground beneath his knees shaking itself apart from the roots up, for the first time he looks into Merlin’s bright eyes, and feels fear curl through his ribs. 

“Will he thank you this time?” Leon asks abruptly, stepping forward, hand clenched tight around his sword hilt, though it remains undrawn. “Every other time you’ve ignored his orders, he’s thanked you afterwards. But this time, will he thank you for what you’re going to do?” 

Merlin scowls and stands, shoving his hands in pockets and opening his mouth as if to speak. He freezes before any sound can leave his mouth, pulling something small and round out of his pocket and staring at, grief rolling over his face in waves. 

Leon shifts nervously as the world responds to Merlin’s churning emotions, the rain starting and stopping with no discernible pattern. There’s a hurricane of emotions building on Merlin’s face as he stares at whatever he’s pulled out of his pocket, and then, just as Lancelot has resigned himself to be thrown back by the inevitable release of emotions, Guinevere steps forward with steady hands, head held high. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted this for you,” she says gently, carefully closing Merlin’s hands over the object in his grasp. “He would have wanted you to help protect his people. To help protect the kingdom that he loved so much, but not this, never this, not for you.”

A might oak falls, trunk cracking in two with all the fury of the lightning still arching its way across the sky. 

“He’s never _thanked me_ Leon but, maybe you’re right,” Merlin says quietly, pulling his hands from Gwen’s. The hair on the back of Lancelot’s neck has yet to settle. “Maybe you’re all right, but I find I don’t much care about what a dead man would want. If he wants to tell me about how terrible my choices are he can do that when he is back here and _alive_.”  


☀︎

  
“He’s never thanked me…” _Merlin had spat, the words ringing with nothing but truth._ He’s never thanked me.

 _Arthur wants to deny that, wants to scream and rage but—_

_He thinks it may be true. No matter how hard he searches his memories, he cannot recall every simply saying thank you to the one person who he may owe the most._

_In the strange window to the living world he can see Merlin walking past Lancelot, not sparing him a glance, back turned to the arch, hands shoved deep in his pockets._

Stop him, _he wants to scream. Can’t you see the curve of his shoulders, the anger in his steps. Stop him, stop him, stop him_ (but could they stop him he wonders, if they tried could they stop him?)

 _“You should not have walked through that veil young king,” the voice says again, reverberating around him._

_“Yes, so you’ve said,” he snaps, twisting away from the image of Merlin’s retreating back. “Yet, what other choice did I have.”_

_There’s a hanging moment of silence, still nothing but white light as far as his eyes can see, the voice seeming to come from nothing but the air itself._

_“There were many choices in front of you,” the voice says finally. Arthur grits his teeth and wishes once again for his sword. “But you have made this choice and so it is this future that will unfold.”_  


☀︎

  


**Author's Note:**

> uhhh i'm sorry? i have more of this universe planned out but uhhh it doesn't really get _better_. I've been in an angst mood, which if you follow my writing (ohmygod i love you if you do), you have probably noticed this lol 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it though!!!


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